Not too old to hunt,
it is my eyes that crave
the grace of wild things,
that tell the boy inside
to take another look,
focus while he can.
I have tracked, squeezed
the trigger, gutted, skinned
and hung the flesh
over flames, told the stories
within these mountains
where I became a man
who hunts for pleasure,
for sign each day—
for what he’s never seen.
for Matt St. Martin















